The Bridge Poem by Doug Lane

I'm driving a taxi
on a Sunday morning
at the Brooklyn end
of the Brooklyn Bridge
and another cabbie hollers
"Which way to the hospital? "
There is a woman
in labor
in his backseat
and she is screaming
and he looks so sorry
he's picked up this fare.
"I dunno, " I shrug."Good luck."
And he says, "Good luck he says.
I'm sinking like a stone over here
and he says good luck."
And off he rolls.

That baby is now 37 years old.
Maybe it o.d.'d 10 years ago.
Maybe it became a
Congressman.
Maybe it fought
in Fallujah.
Maybe it went down
with the towers.
Maybe it walked
ashen and ghostlike
to Brooklyn
while behind it
plumed the gray
of old Manhattan
ascending skyward
blotting the sun.